The Saga Begins

I have written a few things on social media, but have been unable to draft anything substantial or find writing therapeutic since March 14th. Most know, but for the sake of my “story” I am going to start at the beginning. I’m ready.

I left work Wednesday March 13th like a normal day, shut my computer down, waved goodbye, and went home. My stomach hurt most of the day, but I figured “Algeria” (if you know, you know). I skipped dinner because of the cramps and laid around with the hot water bottle. The pain became overwhelming through the night as I paced the hallways, and woke Jamari saying it felt like something was wrong. I waited until 6am and called our medical unit at the Embassy and went in to be checked. By all first look assessments I had appendicitis and would be having surgery; I was emotional thinking of the logistics of that and Jamari came to the medical unit once he got the kids off to school. We took a quick trip to the local hospital to confirm the assessment and had it in our minds that I would likely be flying out that evening for emergency surgery. I had a CT scan done, and waited for the results. The nurse who accompanied us said “the surgeon needs to talk to us, we are going to go in another room”. Her tone, the look on her face, the sadness; I won’t forget it. I knew something was wrong.  I looked at Jamari and said “Why? What does he need to say?” Jamari was calm and said “Let’s listen”.

We went into a room that was the size of a closet. The wheelchair barely fit with the examine table and awkwardly large office desk. They kept trying to close the door but there were too many people in the room, so they gave up. Then the questions, “Have you had diarrhea? Have you had pain? Have you seen blood?” My head started spinning and the room was getting even smaller. I knew what he was about to say. “We found suspicious lesions on your colon.” I don’t know what that means in the moment and with an incredibly dry mouth started saying “What does that mean? What does that mean?” Then the word. The other doctor, who by all accounts wins award for worst bedside manner, looks directly into my eyes and said “Cancer, you have colon cancer.” I started to gag and sob instantly at the same time. They told me to stop crying that it wouldn’t help, and my nurse from the Embassy told me to ignore them. Jamari asked for more clarification. The room went silent. I couldn’t hear any of the multiple conversations happening. I could only hear the pulse of my heart in my brain and images of my children flooded my head. Cancer. How? I am 37. I remember saying “I apologize because it is Ramadan, but I need water. Can someone please get me water.” They pushed a bunch of papers around the desk like a water bottle might be under one and didn’t seem to understand the question. We went in circles on what this could be, what they think this was, the positive outcome in finishing this early. Fake reassurance after telling me to stop crying. I was finished. I heard all I needed to hear; I wanted to leave. They brought me back to the room I was in and I requested to leave I knew the Embassy staff would sort out what they needed but I needed to leave.

We got dropped off at our house; and Jamari and I just looked at each other while I sobbed. This has to be wrong. There is no way that this CT was correct. We thought of all the things that were wrong with the hospital, the doctors, and how they couldn’t possibly have this diagnosis right. Also, lesions; that could be anything. We pumped ourselves with such inspiring hope that the Algerian medical team was incorrect it gave us the push we needed to be able to get ready for the flight to London. A friend came by the apartment since I was couch bound in pain and hooked up to medications and helped pack up clothes for everyone, and we were out the door on a flight the next morning. I distinctly remember closing the door to my apartment, and opening it again. I said in an audible whisper, “Bye Algeria” as I closed the door, somehow knowing this was the last time I would look around my apartment.

The airport was the beginning of this hellish journey. We arrived to the airport and I was denied a wheelchair, so I had to walk baby steps in excruitating pain through the airport, vomiting along the way into a bag I kept in my purse. I told Jamari at least a dozen times that I couldn’t do it, but he kept telling me the opposite. We boarded our flight, and then the plane was grounded for nearly 2 hours with the air conditioner turned off. The pain was intense and couldn’t find comfort. I laid on the floor in front of my seat, sweating, vomiting, and crying in pain for the next 3 hours until we arrived in London. Not once did anyone question the fact that I was laying on the floor. We got our Uber, and for an additional hour from airport to hospital I continued to yell out in pain and vomit. (The Uber driver wasn’t impressed and gave us a bad rating. Bad karma for him.)  At the hospital, it was a blur; I was hurried into a room that had nearly 10 people in it. Doctors, nurses, nurses aids, administrators. There were people focusing on me, focusing on asking Jamari questions, even people in the room to talk to the kids and entertain them. We all agreed we were going to get a CT scan done, and get me some pain medicine. Jamari and I were still convinced Algeria got this wrong, and that I was possibly having an appendix issue; so convinced that I told them to head to the hotel and I would see them tomorrow since nothing was wrong they didn’t need to hang around the hospital, everyone was tired.

I drifted off to sleep and my life changed. Around 11pm, a knock on my door. It is never a good sign when 3 doctors enter your room and wake you, with a team of nurses.  I sat up, the lights were dim, there was no sound but the click of the clock. The doctor didn’t need to say anything, I opened the conversation, “They were right?” She lowered her head slightly and nodded. The sadness in everyone’s eyes terrified me. She began to talk, then stopped and dried a tear from her eye. “The scan shows that you have a  large tumor of apx 10cm on your colon, and an even larger obstruction that is perforating your colon. We will need to do surgery.”  The moment felt like an eternity, I cried so hard I shivered uncontrollably. It was gut wrenching. I am 37 years old, how do I have cancer? This doesn’t happen. Why is this happening? My kids. My husband. I don’t want to die. What did I do wrong? Are all thoughts that went through my head within 3 seconds.

The doctor continued, “on the CT scan, we also note a lesion on your breast.” At this point, my entire body went numb and I remember feeling like I was floating. The doctor said “We need to speak with Jamari, and I think you should have them come back to be with you for a bit.” It was after 11pm and I didn’t want to wake the kids, but her insisting made me think maybe she was right. She called Jamari and gave him the diagnosis over the phone; while another doctor sat in the bed holding me while I cried. After the phone call to Jamari, the lead doctor suggested I call my mom and ask her to come to London. I expressed that was impossible; my mom can’t travel that distance and not on a short notice. She said “You will need all the support you can have for this, I think you should call her.” I dialed the phone and can’t even remember that conversation with my Mom, but I know I passed the phone to the doctor again.

Jamari and the kids showed up; and it was the longest, worst night of my life. We held each other, I cried a lot, we spoke with the kids, we explained the surgery I was going into, and I prayed (a lot). I asked a lot of unanswerable questions to Jamari like, “why?”. Fear isn’t a strong enough word to express what I felt, and still feel. For those who know Jamari; he doesn’t say a lot typically, and in these moments has said even less. There aren’t words he needs to say because there aren’t many words that would help. Instead I hold him and literally pull the strength he exudes from him and  feel at ease. He looked me dead in the eyes that night and said “You’re going to be ok, WE are going to fight this.” That is what I needed. His words and confidence. I looked down at my arm and read my tattoo, “I will survive”. Yes. Yes, I will! I am going to give this every ounce of energy and fight that I have because there is no other option. I had no idea what the next day, week, three weeks ahead would look like.